


The Better Life You Lead

by glovered



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Curses, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:40:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22182712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glovered/pseuds/glovered
Summary: Dean is cursed and it affects both Sam's job and his personal life. This may or may not be a good thing.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 9
Kudos: 88
Collections: 2019 Supernatural & CWRPF Holiday Exchange





	The Better Life You Lead

**Author's Note:**

  * For [samshinechester](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samshinechester/gifts).



> Originally inspired by the scene in ep 15x04 where we find out Sam is vegetarian and that Dean calls himself a meat man. Happy holidays, sammythankyou!

When Sam found him that morning, Dean was staring morosely into the industrial-sized fridge in the bunker kitchen. It was huge so it always looked bare of food, and it was true they rarely got their shit together enough to buy anything to make a well-rounded meal. Still, it wasn't worth crying over.

Yet here Dean was, crying, big tears streaming down his cheeks as he clung to the handle.

"Uh," said Sam, taking a seat at the table but keeping his eyes on Dean in case he needed to take action.

Dean's eyes were big and plaintive when he turned. He held up a package of bacon. "I can't believe a pig died for this."

"Oh," said Sam. "Ha ha." He saw where this was going. He opened his newspaper.

Dean didn't break the act. "For what, Sam? Huh? Just because I think it tastes good? How entitled."

"You're so funny I can't stand it," said Sam, and, ignoring Dean's fake sniffling, began to skim the front page.

Ten minutes later, Dean placed two steaming mugs of coffee, two plates of buttered toast, and a skillet of bacon on the table between them and took a seat.

"You look like shit," he offered. "You should get more sleep."

Sam, who hadn't slept well because of Dean but wasn't about to bring that up at the breakfast table, folded his paper and took the coffee. "Thanks, mom. Your kind words really mean a lot."

"Seriously, you look like you could use a shower and a nap. Well, nothing a good breakfast can't fix." He nudged the skillet toward Sam, looking positively angelic. "Eat up dude."

This joke was getting old. "Dean, for the last time, I don't eat —"

"I know, I know. Don't worry, it's veggie bacon."

Sam sighed. "Didn't we do this like last week?"

"But it really is this time."

Sam rolled his eyes and silently declined, sipping his coffee, which was rich and black the way he liked it. Dean always made amazing coffee.

"Your loss." Dean took a piece of bacon and ripped at it with his teeth.

Sam frowned, watching him chew. Dean couldn't possibly have been telling the truth. He couldn't possibly have taken Sam's vegan bacon from the fridge, fried it up, and now be, what, eating it? Without so much as a smirk?

But the strip looked like it had a chew and resistance that meant veggie bacon for sure. Sam narrowed his eyes.

Feeling like he was totally falling for it, he gingerly picked up a piece himself and sniffed it. His eyebrows rose. Meanwhile Dean chewed on serenely, eyes still red from his earlier waterworks but looking this side of pleased. Sam hedged his bets and put the bacon in his mouth.

His incredulity rose even further at the smoky, peppery, not-really-bacon taste, eyebrows nearly reaching his hairline. He finished eating the piece slowly, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It didn't. They ate a couple more strips together in silence, dipping them in the maple syrup that Dean poured generously onto a plate, an unmistakable feeling of goodwill glowing between them as they finished off the pan.

Sam savored the last gulp of his coffee, trying to hide a smile. This was nice. He was considering making more coffee when Dean nudged forward his own mug. "I'm not finishing this, have the rest."

Suspicion renewed, Sam carefully took the coffee and peered into it. It looked fine. "Thanks…"

Dean shrugged, licking grease and syrup off his fingers before standing up. "Any time," he said, still with no hint of a smirk.

With a clap on the back, he left Sam pleasantly full and with more questions than he'd like this early in the morning.

Sam had lived long enough to know that nothing this good happened without a reason. Something was up with Dean.

A strange occurrence a couple days later confirmed this.

Sam walked through the old, three-storey Victorian, flicking on lightswitches until he found one that worked. Dean trailed behind him, shining his flashlight over the peeling wallpaper.

"Gotta love a classic haunted house," said Sam over his shoulder as Dean examined the dusty photos on the mantle.

Famous last words. Not one, not two, but four ghosts flickered into existence.

Sam raised his sawed-off, goosebumps racing up his arms and neck as his breath froze. "Dean! Behind you!"

Dean whirled, gun at the ready. When he caught sight of the ghosts though, something strange happened.

"Help us," one said, her tattered dress flowing until it disappeared into the floor.

"Mister, help us!" cried another, grabbing at her spectral curls like she was in eternal torment.

The other two let out ghostly sobs. "Boooooo. Boo hoo."

Dean lowered his gun to his side and he stepped forward. "You girls ok?"

Sam's grip to the barrel tightened. "Dean?"

The ghosts flickered a bit out of sync, like their earthly coil was plugged into a faulty socket.

Dean took another step forward hand raising to...what? Calm them down? "I'm here," he said. "Ok?" He looked hopefully over his shoulder at Sam. "Me ‘n my brother. We're here to help. We're not going to hurt you."

"Uh," said Sam. Then, rather unconvincingly to his own ears, "Yes. We are totally here to help you." He kept his gun at his shoulder, ready to blow them into another room in a rain of salt.

One of the ghosts sniffled, growing more solid, less flickery. This usually meant bad news, that they were materializing in this plane of existence and would really be able to hand Sam and Dean their asses, but Dean seemed heartened at the sight.

"You girls wanna talk about what's bothering you?" he asked.

The ghosts nodded one by one and then said, in creepy unison, "I'm sad."

"Well, we're here to help." Dean paused for a moment after the words left his mouth, but then shook his head and smiled beatifically.

Sam gaped as Dean sat cross-legged on the floor, and the girls sat across from him.

And then he stood back and watched as Dean held a counseling session for ghosts.

It was kind of...sweet actually. If truth be told, it warmed Sam's heart the way Dean patiently listened to the gruesome way they had been murdered. Dean spoke clearly and calmly as he helped them realize they were dead and should head toward the light, Sam the whole while awkwardly standing in the corner shifting from foot to foot, unable to let go his hold on his gun or really move from the spot until the ghosts finally flickered out of existence one by one and Dean got to his feet, wiping his hands on his jeans and leaving behind a butt print on the dusty floor.

Sam made some noises and finally asked, "Whaaa—t just happened?"

Dean grinned. "I sent them into the light, Sammy."

"Sure did."

"Because I'm awesome."

"Uh yeah, I can see that." It _had_ been pretty awesome but Sam didn't think they should take it up as a hobby or anything. He stepped up until his shoulder was brushing Dean's, staring with him at the space where the ghosts used to be. "Uh, Dean, you feeling ok? I mean I've noticed lately you've been, uh, really nice."

Dean gave him a look that was kind of patronizing actually. "Not everything has to be about violence, dude. Sometimes all you need is some compassion." He passed with a manly pat to Sam's chest. "Try it sometime."

Sam put a hand over the spot, feeling his heartbeat and watching Dean exit through the previously sealed-off front door. "Right."

He didn't have the heart to argue, but he wasn't totally at ease with this development either.

He had a good laugh a week later when, instead of ganking the were-panther they tracked down in Florida, Dean dropped his machete and helped the guy up from the mud.

"You're serious?" Sam said, a little charmed at this unexpected turn of events, despite the fact that they'd just chased this guy an arduous mile on foot along the edge of a swamp. And they wouldn't have been able to keep up except the were-panther circled back to menace them.

Dean gestured to the half-man, half-beast (Pete, as they soon found out he was called). "He used to be a guy, right?"

"Yes!" cried Pete, hairline receding before their eyes until he was mostly man again, waterlogged and sweaty in ripped clothing. "Yes I did!"

Sam stepped forward, hoping he looked forbidding muddy clothes and all. It seemed to work. The guy cowered a bit where he stood, despite the fangs and claws he'd been sporting not two minutes before.

"So like...we shouldn't kill him," Dean said, like he was trying the idea out. "Because he's not a monster. He's just half monster. And even then he's more like half-kitten. Kind of cute actually." Dean's eyes went comically wide. "I did not mean to admit that out loud." He put a hand over his mouth belatedly. Sam gave him a sideways glance, snickering.

"Yes, I am all for being not killed," Pete interjected, mostly to Sam who was not yet convinced.

"He did say he doesn't eat _people_ ," said Dean between his fingers. He turned on Pete. "Right?"

The man, who still had a catlike slant to his eyes, looked affronted. "Eat people? Of course not! That would be totally illegal."

"Dude, drop the victim act. You know why we gotta check." Sam put the safety back on his gun anyway. "So no humans at all?"

Pete shook his head. "Cross my heart."

"Good." Dean flipped his machete in one hand, caught it, holstered it. "You seriously promise never to eat a human?"

Pete grinned. "Promise. I live solely on the innards of rats and other small rodents."

"Gross," Dean said goodnaturedly.

They shook on it and together trekked back to the car. They even gave the guy a ride back into town, leaving him with the promise to play pool next time they made it down to the Panhandle.

Sam watched Pete's dwindling reflection wave a furrier-than-average hand farewell in the rearview mirror while Dean whistled along with the radio.

Sam laughed at him. "Are you serious right now? We just let that guy go."

"He promised to be good!"

"Uh huh. Since when have you been Mr. Shades of Grey."

"I know, I know. But maybe you should listen to your inner conscien—" Dean started. Then cleared his throat. "He's a sentient being, Sammy. He's got a life. Likes, dislikes, friends, hobbies and shit."

Sam fought the fond smile that was creeping over his face. "You just like him because he complimented your jacket."

"As I said. Man's got big thoughts in his head. Can't just call a were a were and be done with it. Things aren't actually black and white."

Sam just shook his head, watching the hanging moss on the willows fly by on their way to the highway. "What is the world coming to?"

It wasn't that noticeable actually. Just moments here and there. Like at a self-serve car wash in Minnesota, Sam filling a bucket with water, suds overflowing as he watched Dean lean over the car with a squeegee, shirt riding up.

They were staying at a quaint motel called Nod ‘n Go, which had the shittiest mattress Sam had ever slept on and shower heads a whole two feet too short. Dean countered that at least the mattress was big enough for the both of them, and Sam should be happy there even was hot water.

"You know, you're really looking on the bright side these days," Sam noted. They were in t-shirts and sprayed with hose water.

Dean shrugged. "I feel just...lighter somehow. Like things are maybe looking up." He frowned after saying it though, looking confused. "I...that sounded stupid. I didn't mean to say that out loud."

Sam frowned too, but tried not to show it. It was weird, right? Not super weird. Just a little weird. He'd been kind of too nice lately? That's the only evidence Sam had, and it would sound totally stupid said outloud. But even so, Dean had complimented Sam's shirt choice the other day. Opened the occasional diner door and let Sam pass through without calling him his girlfriend or whatever. And the crying had been weird, but that had mostly stopped when he'd started eating a diet that ‘killed less cute animals and made a smaller global footprint.'

There was no use freaking Dean out about anything until Sam looked into it. He would make some calls when they finished this hunt. It was on the list.

"Well, I'm glad you're feeling good," Sam said, and let the subject die. He sponged off the side of the car and Dean relaxed a bit and went to clean the windscreen. Sam watched him, how his jeans pulled tight as he leaned over the car and how his shirt was wet from sun sweat and the hose. He looked real good, nearly soaked through.

"You know, I was thinking," Dean said, turning abruptly and Sam looked away a second late, face heating at being caught. "We gotta start compensating people for their help."

Sam nearly dropped his bucket. "Huh?"

Dean looked a little bemused at his own admission but kept on squeegeeing, a thin wash of road dirt and bug guts sluicing off systematically to reveal clear glass. "You know what I mean," he said. "Other hunters. Or contacts or whatever. We should pay them."

"Dean," said Sam slowly. " _We_ don't get paid for our help."

Dean didn't answer until they were working on the finishing touches, wiping at the tail lights and sponging black soot from the wheels.

"I'm just saying, we've only gotten to where we are by relying on like a million people. We'd probably have died so many more times without their help. The least we can do is give ‘em something useful as thanks."

"I guess…" Sam inserted one of their stolen credit cards into the machine to pay for the spray-on wax coat and dry service that only cost an extra $5.99, but which they couldn't afford with their own cash.

He looked at Dean out of the corner of his eye again. Although he still seemed to be mulling over the question of compensation, he looked like himself, not a hair different. Sam was probably 90 percent sure he hadn't been possessed or replaced by anything ghoulish. He had been making all the same references. Driving the same way he always did. Calling Sam stupid names and smiling that same untrustworthy smile when he—

"Dean!"

It was too late, Dean had emptied an entire bucket of freezing cold water over Sam's head.

—smiling the same untrustworthy smile when he pulled shit like this. Sam sputtered, caught between anger and disbelief.

"That's what you get for letting your guard down. Where are those hunter reflexes now, huh?"

"Dude, I just showered!"

"Don't worry it was clean!" Dean backed off. "Sam no—"

He took off running, but Sam was close on his heels. Dean was the one who was going to pay this time.

But while the subtle change in Dean's behavior was funny, like many things in life it was funny until it was not.

Sam hadn't gotten around to seeking outside help. Because things were ok and they definitely had bigger stuff on their plate. Also it had only been three weeks since he'd first noticed the change in Dean's behavior, and a small part of him was enjoying it. He was allowed to be a little selfish once in a while, right? And it wasn't like this curse of niceness or whatever was hurting anyone.

Until now.

Dean was kneeling over him on the bed, silhouetted in the light filtering through the shitty motel drapes. Sam's brow furrowed as, instead of having his way with him, Dean was just gently caressing his biceps.

"Uh, Dean?" Sam's voice sounded too loud in the fuzzy quiet.

"Yeah?" He could feel Dean's words softly on his face.

He cleared his throat. "Uh, dude, what are you doing?"

"Shh…." said Dean, running his hands up Sam's arms and gently tugging until he held both Sam's wrists in a gentle grip above his head. The pillows had been knocked off the bed half an hour ago and yet Dean was only just now gently kissing his way down Sam's neck.

"Uh," Sam started again, but it turned into a whimper when Dean bit gently at his left pec through his shirt. Sam couldn't help but note that by this point usually his shirt would have been balled up and tossed somewhere across the room.

Dean continued his slow work of popping every button of Sam's shirt slowly out of its hole with his free hand, fingers deft and careful so as not to rip them and send them scattering off into the dim corners.

Sam was seriously uncomfortable now, his heartbeat too loud in his head. "Seriously, what are you—"

Dean stopped what he was doing completely, the bastard. "Taking it slow, dude. Would it kill you to be a little romantic?"

He then slid his hand under Sam's shirt, stroking his abs and down his sides until Sam was writhing. After agonizing minutes of this, Sam easily freed his hands from Dean's weak grip to drag Dean's hand roughly toward his pants.

"Do it already," he ground out.

But try as he might, Dean remained hovering over him, their bodies barely brushing. Dean moved his hand to Sam's knee instead of taking the hint, pushing it off to one side and Sam may have let out a sound somewhere between a sob and a curse, embarrassed at even having to ask, and more mortified still at being denied it.

"Sorta wanna take my time with this," Dean said and pressed a soft kiss to Sam's mouth, too intimate in the dark. "You mean everything to me, you know that? I've always wanted to tell you, haven't known how."

Sam felt a too-tight welling in his chest, a certain hot prickle at the edge of his eyes which he quickly blinked away.

Dean deepened the kiss, working Sam's mouth open beneath his in slick licks. Sam surged upward on his elbows and tried to make the kisses harder, more perfunctory. More _normal_. They didn't do this...this making out. It was usually just a quick precursor to the main event.

But not tonight. With a deft leg under Sam's, Dean repositioned them so that they were flipped, Sam on top.

"I want to give you everything."

"I hate you," Sam said back with total conviction.

"You can take whatever you want."

"Way to make this creepy, dude."

"Can't a man be honest about his feelings?" Dean's lips brushed Sam's jaw again, silk to sandpaper. "I care about you. So much. I—"

"Oh my fucking god," said Sam, and shoved Dean off of him.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and sat there pressing his palms into his eyes. Dean reached out and rubbed his back.

It wasn't fucking fair. Dean couldn't spring this on him. He couldn't act like Sam hadn't tried to talk to him a million times and for years, tell him how he felt. No chick flick moments, right? It was just the way it had always been.

And what was worse was, Dean's creepy crooning had actually been a weird turn on.

This night had gone from bad to worse and he was probably going to have to go take care of things in the bathroom.

"Sorry," said Dean after a long, terrible silence. It was somewhat heartening that he sounded a little weirded out himself.

"I'm just going to..." Sam trailed off and stood, Dean's hand falling away. He headed to the ensuite which was the size of a closet but which had a door that he could barricade himself behind while he thought about all the many things that had led him here.

He quietly pulled the door shut and stared at himself in the mirror. What the hell.

Soft footsteps came up to the bathroom and Dean's voice was muffled through the door. "I think...Sam. I think I might be…cursed?"

"Yeah," Sam agreed, looking at his mussed hair and his thoroughly kissed mouth. They could never catch a break. He held onto the edge of the countertop until his knuckles went bone-white and then he forced himself to relax.

"Goddammit," said Dean quietly through the door.

It had been funny, a nice change of pace. But now it was not.

He made a call and they drove out to meet up with Donna.

The sunny day looked bleak. Dean claimed he wasn't hungry and Sam didn't argue, leaving him leaning against the car flipping his lighter open, closed, open, closed, looking out at the lake. Sam went into the lunch place and found Donna easily, standing in line in her uniform.

"Thanks for driving down here," he told her after they'd gotten their food and taken a seat outside.

"It was only an hour. Besides, if I'd of known you boys were in Minnesota I would have joined you." She only sounded gently chiding. "Funny you should roll through town now actually. You here about those murders?"

Sam nodded. "We got here a day ago. But I was hoping you could take the case instead." He couldn't let dozens more left-handed red heads get their kidneys ripped out just because his sex life was going downhill.

"Why? Too difficult? Need to call in real law enforcement for once?"

"Ha ha," Sam deadpanned. "Nah, something just came up."

Suddenly the smile was gone. "Something big? You boys ok?" She studied him worriedly, like she could read the bad news on his face.

He probably looked like shit. He was wearing a pair of Dean's sunglasses to cover his bloodshot eyes. He hadn't slept all night and although the grilled cheese in front of him had the perfect crunch to melt ratio, he was far too worried to enjoy it.

He shook his head. "Oh yeah, nothing like— nothing that bad."

She visibly relaxed. "What then?"

"It's really nothing. Do you think you can you take the case? I think it's a coven or something, but we haven't checked it out yet."

"Of course. I'm on it." She sipped her iced tea."You know you can talk to me, Sam. Where's Dean?"

"He's in the car. He says hi. He's just—" Sam picked at his fries. He couldn't keep this to himself. He didn't want to.

He briefly explained the crying and the ghost counseling and the general lack of a filter Dean had had recently.

Donna's eyes grew wider and wider. "Woofta," she said when he'd finished.

"Yeah," Sam agreed, feeling extra morose now that he'd said it aloud. He had a sudden recollection of last night — the sweet stroking, which had been more like petting. And the way Dean's voice had sounded, saying the kind of things that had always gone unspoken between them.

"Ok, that sounds kind of weird for sure," she said, breaking him from the sense memory. "But as far as things go, it doesn't sound that bad right?"

Sam shook his head. "No. It's very bad. It is ruining my life."

She squinted at him.

He backtracked quickly. "I mean, ruining hunting."

"How so?"

"Well he's always been more of a...a taker? Not a giver?" He cleared his throat. "If you know what I mean?"

She raised an eyebrow. "I'm not sure that I do."

"Like, generally." He waved a hand. "Just like, usually it's less talking, more taking what he wants. Uh, during hunts I mean. And it's fine with me. Great actually. It's worked for all these years. But now that he's being more of a giver — during hunts — I kind of don't know how to act? Like, I liked it the way it was. There wasn't any question about what we were doing— Like, hunting-wise. And I have spent years trying not to tell him how I feel— about the way we hunt and why we do it—" She was looking more and more confused and Sam could feel himself growing redder the more he talked. "You know what, never mind."

"Well, it sounds like this curse is ruining your communication, and communication is key for hunters." She sipped her iced tea, looking thoughtful. "You know, there's a woman I met. A couple hours drive. Has this beautiful house on the lake. Last year I convinced Jody to go take a phone-free birthday weekend there with me to help her chill out."

Sam smiled at the image this conjured up of Jody wearing stretchy pants and drinking herbal tea. Donna was good for her, not that Sam would ever broach the subject — Jody had a gun and wasn't afraid to use it, after all.

"Anyway," Donna said. "I got the feeling yoga retreats were just how she makes her money. Targeting the basic, disposable income, yuppie demographic. Or bridal parties, what have you." She waved a hand. "Smart, really. Anyhow, I think she might also be the real deal. Some kind of magic aura reader type, with crystals, the whole shebang. So maybe she can help."

Sam smiled. "No offense, but I don't know if crystals will help in this situation."

"Look, I know I'm new to this whole business and I don't have an eye yet for spotting supernatural folk, but it can't hurt to try, right? Some of the reviews online were really vague, intense sounding. Stuff about her being able to really see into your soul and stuff. And after hanging out there for a weekend, I totally believe it." She paused. "Or it might have just been the extreme level of zen after a weekend of meditating 24-7. In any case, you could go talk to her. It couldn't hurt, right?"

That didn't quite sound like it was up there alley, but Sam didn't know which way to turn at this point. "Yeah," he said. "I think I might just give her a call."

"Her name is Penelope. Here's her number."

"Thanks Donna," he said and took down her information.

It couldn't hurt to try.

Dean agreed easily, looking a little relieved, if freaked out. They drove two hours north, up what all the gas station postcards said was a well-known scenic byway, through long tunnels under mountains that spat them out into the lake-splashed woods.

"Half an hour to go," Dean told him. He had agreed to let Sam drive, that was how bad things had gotten. He had his eyes shut and was leaning against the window with his sunglasses firmly on his face (which he'd stolen back from Sam) looked like he was two days from death.

"You're going to be fine," Sam told him, taking the curves at a careful forty. "You literally are fine."

"I'm not fine, Sammy. I'm cursed." He coughed to punctuate this.

"You're in perfect health," Sam said. He bit his lip and thought about last night again, all those whispered things. Didn't know if he should go there. Decided not to.

Dean muttered, "Spit it out, dude. I can hear your gears grinding from over here."

Sam hazarded a glance. "Well, um...do you think it's a truth curse?"

"You wish."

"Ha," Sam said.

"Nah," Dean said. "More like...like I keep saying shit I wouldn't say. But I think it isn't about truth, more like, stuff I'm not usually trying to think about or say."

"So it's a truth curse."

"No," Dean said again, slower, like Sam was stupid. "It's not that I feel compelled to say anything, it's just like. I don't know." He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back, his mouth twisted in what, when Sam looked over, he thought might be embarrassment. "Like I keep admitting stuff that usually sounds too pansy to say. Or something."

Sam tried to see the difference, squinting at the passing trees that were heavy with green.

"It's not a freakin truth curse, ok?" said Dean. "Hang a left here."

Sam did, navigating the car down a narrow road that wound off and away from the highway and led them deep into the forest, the trees dense and lush.

"This must be it," he said half an hour later, slowing as they approached the only driveway for miles.

They drove into a large clearing with a two-story cabin. Sam parked them beside compost bins and when he got out of the car, the slam of the car door was loud like a gunshot in the quiet clearing. Dean did the same and came around to his side.

The cabin was huge with a wide porch that had some yoga mats rolled up against the wall and windchimes hanging from the awnings. Wildflowers sprung up out of the ground in random patches and an orange cat trotted by, ignoring them. Running nearby was a stream with young trees growing right up out of the bank. This definitely looked like the kind of place a naturey witch would live, one of those good witches, the ones you might see in a cartoon.

"Ah, the Winchesters."

They whirled to find that a woman in a sundress and matching floppy hat, who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere or at least walked very quietly.

Dean looked resigned. "We didn't tell you our names over the phone."

Penelope inclined her head, a knowing smile playing across her lips.

"So you've heard of us?" Sam said. "That's usually not a good thing."

"Don't let it worry you. I make it my business to know things. Come along inside."

They followed her into an entryway hung brightly with wall art and colorful curtains. Once she'd sat them at the table and gotten them drinks — sparkling water for Sam, hot chocolate for Dean — she looked Dean over with a discerning gaze.

"So you said you think you've been cursed." Her lips quirked, like the idea was funny.

"Lady, I know I have." Dean gave Sam a swift glance when Sam stepped on his foot beneath the table. He cleared his throat. "I mean, sorry, I'm just kind of freaked out here."

"Well, good news," she said. "You haven't been cursed."

Dean looked uncertainly to Sam. Sam looked at Penelope.

"You've been enchanted."

Sam frowned. "How can you be sure?"

"Yeah, don't you need to do some spellwork or whatever?"

"Not at all. I see it clearly. It's here." She pressed a manicured finger to Dean's shirtfront.

Dean looked down at his chest. "What's here?"

"I can see the afterimage of the enchantment, right over your heart chakra." When they both just stared at her, she smiled. "Think of it as a receipt. Or a scar. There's a lingering marking of where some magic was performed."

"Scar," Dean repeated. "Scar sounds bad."

Sam's blood had gone cold at the confirmation. "What's wrong with him?"

"Nothing. In this case it is very good. His heart chakra has been opened, just a tad."

"What does that mean?"

"Well, I see auras, and normally they appear as faint glowing, a fuzz of color. But in this case I can see your heart chakra blazing much more strongly than, say, your brother's or my own. A joyful green light."

"Creepy," Dean said, looking down at his chest.

"Yeah," Sam said.

"This shouldn't adversely affect you. That's why I say it's an enchantment. In fact, it should increase your happiness. You must have done something very kind to warrant such a great gift."

Dean gulped his hot chocolate. Sam pressed his foot, more in reassurance this time. "So how do we, I don't know, close it back up?" he asked her.

"Why would you want to do that? Many people long to find a way to be more open and accepting and empathic. It really is a gift."

"He's just...not himself."

"Sure he is. This wouldn't change anything about him."

"Hello, I'm still in the room," Dean said.

Sam studied him. Dean studied him back, looking impatient.

"Do you feel ok?"

"I feel great," Dean said, looking like he meant the opposite. "I mean, really, I do."

"Be honest."

"Well, I have noticed that some of the things I normally wouldn't say out loud. And some of the urges I have to, well, do some things, are easier to follow. More like, I have more mental clarity on them?"

She nodded, looking satisfied. "As I suspected. You haven't been changed, just cleared of negative blockage in that chakra. It is how you would have been this whole time if you hadn't spent your whole life building up walls around your hopes and dreams. Out of necessity, to protect yourself."

"Ah," said Dean, looking massively uncomfortable.

"We all do it, some more than others depending on the level of trauma. Whoever did this to you did you a favor. You're still yourself, just liberated from some of the baggage." She smiled at Sam. "He'll be fine. In fact, he will live a fuller life because of it."

"Full sounds good," said Dean, and looked surprised that he'd said it. "Yeah, actually, now that you put it like that, I feel pretty sure things are going to be ok. For the first time in a long time."

He poured the last drips of his hot chocolate into his mouth. "I'm gonna hit the bathroom."

Sam waited for him to go before turning back to Penelope.

"But—" He didn't know how to put his concerns into words. Of course he didn't want Dean to be in pain. Of course he wanted Dean to feel free of the damage the world had done to him. Hell, Sam had spent recent years doing emotional processing in hopes just to get to that point. "But—"

But what if this changed Dean on some fundamental level? What if they found out that Dean was only himself because of the baggage he had? It was a sad thought, and Sam felt selfish for even thinking it.

As if reading his mind she said, "It doesn't seem Dean has lost any of himself, has he? Not his memories, not his interests."

Sam thought of the long, drawn out, thorough makeout session and shivered.

"No," he said, feeling tragic.

"And he hasn't harmed anyone or shown signs of physical distress?"

"No…"

"So he's fine. Don't think of it as him losing something, think of it as he's just gained something new. The power to be empathetic freely in this harsh world."

That actually was very nice when she put it that way.

She put a hand on his shoulder. "He will be fine. _You_ will be fine."

Sam wasn't sure that anyone had ever said that to him. He felt his eyes well up. No. He wasn't going to pull a Dean.

"Well, thanks." He stood. "I'm sure you're busy. We'll head out. How much—?"

She waved him off. "No, no. This one's on me. It's been an interesting opportunity to help the famed Winchesters."

He thanked her again and, when her back was turned, shoved some twenties in her napkin holder.

They drove back to civilization in silence. Dean gave him an arched eyebrow when Sam tried to drive, silently putting his hand out for the keys, looking suddenly cured since the news had been good news.

Sam stared out the window for an hour passenger-side, thinking dark thoughts. He was happy for Dean. Happy nothing was actually wrong. But this would change things between them. It was inevitable. He could weather almost anything as long as Dean was beside him, but what happened when Dean moved on because he was living this fuller life?

There were two sides to every coin, afterall. Sam had lived through hell itself and sometimes still felt he was living it, but now Dean had the power to put some of his own hell behind him. And when he found himself pulling around Sam like some dead weight, Dean wouldn't have a reason to want to stick around.

Sam was damned if he was going to admit it, but the certainty he felt about this hypothetical future was overwhelming.

As if sensing his mood, Dean put on some soft 80s ballads to try to lull him to sleep. He glanced over hopefully a couple times and after fifteen minutes, when that hadn't worked, switched it back to Zeppelin with a wry smile.

Sam thought himself in circles for so long that when they finally got back to their motel he said, "You know what, I'm going to get a drink."

"Ok," said Dean, gamely pulling the keycard out of the door and turning back to the car.

Sam tried to look unworried, chill. "You don't have to come with, you know. I'm just heading to the bar we passed a couple blocks back. I'll be fine."

Dean stared him down until Sam finally shrugged and got back into the car.

At the bar, a real dive, Sam downed his first whiskey and quickly ordered another, tapping a finger against the sticky bartop.

"Woah, easy tiger," said Dean, but took the hint quickly when Sam leveled him with a look. "Sooo, I'm gonna go check out the darts."

Sam watched him leave out of the corner of his eye, thinking he might one day really have to watch Dean walk away. He sipped the next double, feeling vindictive self-pity at the burn.

"You look like someone who needs a distraction."

"I might need to take my mind off a couple things, yeah," said Sam, because what the hell, right? He turned to see that the guy who'd come up next to him was nearly as tall as he was, and good-looking in a kind of bland, TV way. "You offering?"

In answer, the guy flagged down the bartender to order them more drinks.

As far as bar pickups went, it wasn't the worst. He was a local, totally nice and normal. But Sam was surprised when the jokes he told had him cracking a couple real smiles.

"Hey, you wanna get out of here?" the guy finally said, leaning in close. He drew back in time to catch the beginning of Sam's smile. He seemed encouraged by it and waved down the bartender again to pay both of their tabs.

Sam thought about the offer, he really did. They could be two normal guys. No great love story involved, no lifetime of heartache. It would be easy, uncomplicated, no strings attached.

The guy was pocketing his wallet. He put his hand over Sam's on the bar lightly, and smiled up at him like he knew Sam was a sure thing. "So?"

Sam was about to decide on an answer when Dean was suddenly there. He grabbed the guy by the shoulder and punched him promptly in the face, knocking him on his ass.

"What the hell?!" the guy said from the floor, more shocked than angry, like he had never had reason to expect a punch in his life.

Dean stood over him, flexing his hand, and said archly, "I take it you're more of a lover, not a fighter."

The guy pressed a hand to his face. "Seriously, what's your problem? Ow."

Sam sipped the last of his whiskey with grim dissatisfaction.

Dean looked from Sam and back to the guy, regret beginning to color his expression. "Shit," he said. "Man, I'm sorry." He reached am arm down and, after a slightly incredulous pause, the guy let himself be helped up.

"Seriously, that wasn't cool," said Dean. "I'm trying not to be that guy anymore. I just flipped."

"No, I get it, I get it. I came on to your boyfriend, it was my bad." He gave Dean an almost sheepish smile. "I'm Matt."

"Bruce," said Dean, shaking his hand. "Nice to meet you."

"You, too."

"You're an asshole," Sam said, although he wasn't sure which one of them he was addressing.

He turned and walked out of the bar.

He didn't know where he was going. He couldn't very well leave Dean behind. They weren't twenty-five anymore. He just had to clear his head.

He got in the car and just sat there, clenching his jaw and staring at the steam coming up from grates while Dean was probably buying Matt a drink or something. It was five minutes before Dean slid into the driver's side.

"Can't take you anywhere, can I?" he quipped, and turned the key.

The engine idled but he didn't put it into drive. When Sam finally looked over, Dean gave him a careful look.

"So, spill."

"We don't have to do this," Sam said.

"No, we're doing it," said Dean turning the key. "Laying it out. I told you how I felt about you and you freaked."

Sam sputtered. "That is _not_ what happened."

"So, is this the way it's going to be? You gonna be pissed at me forever? I thought you'd be happy that I'm ok. That I—"

"I'm not pissed at you." Sam picked at a loose thread of his well-ripped jeans thinking things he would never say out loud. _You won't need me anymore._

"Sammy. Nothing's going to change. Not from some dumb non-curse, not ever. Ok?"

Sam rolled his eyes but Dean continued on.

"I got feelings for you. Always have. Now I'm just man enough to say it."

"Oh." Sam looked at him, really looked. At the sure set of Dean's jaw, the certainty in his eyes.

Dean didn't hesitate before he leaned in, hand going to Sam's hair.

Even if the kiss was a little too slow, so thorough as to make Sam really lose himself to the feelings he had tried for years not to examine too closely, for fear of being punched or abandoned, or worse. Even so, it was exactly what he needed.

Dean's eyes were soft when he pulled back. "You know, I just figured out what the curse was."

"Oh yeah?"

"It wasn't a truth spell. It was a bravery spell."

"Oh my god that is so cheesy," said Sam.

"My heart chakra is super about it," Dean said, and started kissing his way down Sam's neck until Sam shoved him away, happiness running just below his skin.

"Just drive us back already," he said, but he couldn't help his own dopey smile the whole way home.

Some things might last forever. And sometimes that's a good thing.


End file.
